BirchLane.net

August 2008

 

Friday 29

 

Thursday 28

Goodbye Alberto.

 

Wednesday 27

Red in Ware.

Tuesday 26

Portraits.

 

Monday 25

Mediation.

 

Sunday 24

Gratitude.  A good day when both my children call to say hello. Thank You.

On Saturday, Susan bought an antique mirror at The Antique Center of Northampton in Northampton, Massachusetts. She bought the antique mirror for our kitchen. On Sunday, I put a new back on the antique mirror, cleaned it, and hung it. I think the antique mirror looks beautiful. I think our kitchen looks beautiful.

Saturday 23

 

Friday 22

 

Thursday 21

Dad. I made broccoli and past tonight. It reminded me of my dad. I felt sad. I was reminded of the journal entry below.

Recipes. They fall from the cookbooks:

I was just thinking of meatballs; I was
looking through a cookbook of my dad's
and clipped recipes marked recipes in
the book and he had marked "meatballs."
And this his favorite ("Dad," I said, "How
come you never order something else?")
Orecchiette Con Broccoli Di Raba. Or
Broccoli Di Rapa Affogati. They are both
clearly marked in "Naples At Table," a book
he was happy to share one night with me:
"Look," he said, "Arthur Schwartz wrote
this book." Tomorrow I will make
Pasta E Lenticchie. I wonder which of
these he may have made (knowing how
difficult it can be to cook for one--yet
I can hear him say "Tonight
I am making Meatloaf. Tonight I am
making Salmon. Tonight I am making
Meatballs.") Baked Onions & Garlic;
Asparagus & Toasted Pine Nuts with Lemon Vinaigrette;
 

Twenty-One Days. I went back to my Dad's apartment today. Twenty-one days after my Dad passed away I went back. I went back to pack the china and glassware, measure the dining room table and hutch, dust and sweep.

The apartment was stale, lifeless and the Jade plant in my Dad's bedroom sagged from forty years of growth, dry in the sun. I stood there and I stared out the window at The George Washington Bridge and the Jade plant stood there, too; stories I knew she would share with me when she was ready to speak--family stories.

When I opened the door to my Dad's apartment the photograph I gave him for Father's Day was the first thing I saw--not one of mine but one I bought from a photographer on a street corner in New York City; a photo of Lower Manhattan taken from the Jersey side of the Hudson River, the Twin Towers still standing. When I finally reached my Dad that day on the phone I was never sure if he was crying but he said he stood and he stared out the window and saw the Twin Towers crumble to dust and fall, and he heard the sirens and he waited, waited, and waited for another skyscraper in New York City to be attacked and crumble and fall. We talked everyday for days afterward--a few times every day. I wish I could call him now. "Dad. Hi. It's me."

First I walked from room to room in my Dad's apartment. Bathroom. Bedroom. Guest Room. Living Room. Dining Room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Guest Room. Living Room. Kitchen. Balcony. The apartment was eerily empty of life: much of the furniture had already been taken by relatives, the hundreds of family photographs gone, the kitchen cabinets bare; strangely, the only room with some sense of normality, of life, was my Dad's bedroom (My nephew Craig had not yet come for the bedroom furniture.). I had not yet begun to pack but I was already feeling emotionally drained.

The first thing I packed were the Martini glasses and Red Wine goblets. My Dad appreciated a good drink and a fine wine and I think this was where I should have started and I did. Of course, I would have poured a drink then and there but it was not yet noon and all the wine and liquor had already been divided up among my siblings and I three short weeks ago. Next I packed the china. Place-settings for twelve. White and perfect. Dinner Plates. Soup Bowls. Salad Plates. Coffee cups and saucers. Platters. Bowls. And then I packed the silverware, and the vases, and the candlestick holders. I packed three boxes of glasses, dishes and silverware for Danielle as she will be living in Rochester, NY next year working on her Master's and PhD.

And then I packed the car and I had room for one or two more items. I went back to my Dad's apartment; 15J in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Funny: six or seven years ago when I was selling printing and commuting to NYC from Western Massachusetts and spending one or two nights a week with my Dad, I went the 17th Floor, Apartment J, opened the door and thought "Oh My God. Dad has totally remodeled his apartment!" One or two seconds later, I realized I was in the wrong apartment, quietly closed the door, and went to Apartment 15J. "Bruce," my Dad said. "You look tired. Put your briefcase and camera down. I'll make you a drink."

And that's the way it was--always. I would arrive at his apartment around seven at night after a day in the city (or he would pick me up at the Ferry Terminal), we would have drinks, watch FoodTV (usually Mario Batali or Sara Moulton), and then go to The Big Red Tomato for dinner (where we were treated like kings; the brother and sister owners, Vincent and Carmella, and the waitstaff knew us very well--we had been eating there at least once a week for five or six years; ah the stories we shared). We would bring a bottle of red and unwind. Father and Son. Sometimes, I would ask a waitress to come outside with me so I could photograph her. Sometimes, I photographed people at their tables. Sometimes. Sometimes. Sometimes.

I went back for the Jade plant. She had I knew stories to share with me.

 

Wednesday 20

Next Photo Assignment.

Tuesday 19

Nadine.

Monday 18

 

Sunday 17

Miracles.

"For the truly faithful, no miracle is necessary. For those who doubt, no miracle is sufficient." ~Nancy Gibbs

Saturday 16

Friday 15

The Lower Mill Pond.

Easthampton, Massachusetts

Thursday 14

Famous People, Famous Places. Starting to think and plan and finalize the details, from the prints to the installation, of my next exhibition at ECA which opens Saturday, September 13.

Tin Pan Alley. New York City.

Wednesday 13

Grandmother's Garden.

Grandmother's Garden. Westfield, Massachusetts

Tuesday 12

Danse Russe   IF when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,-- if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: "I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!" If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,-- Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?   ~William Carlos Williams

Monday 11

Desiderata.

Flower and Rose Garden. Stanley Park. Westfield, Massachusetts

Desiderata written by Max Ehrmann, 1927 Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy

Sunday 10

Creation.

Saturday 09

A New Basket.

Friday 08

Stanley Park.

Flower and Rose Garden. Stanley Park. Westfield, Massachusetts.

My garden is my most beautiful masterpiece. It's on the strength of observation and reflection that one finds a way. So we must dig and delve unceasingly. Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love. ~Monet

Thursday 07

Grace Notes.

Wednesday 06

Vincent.

I experience a period of frightening clarity in those moments when nature is so beautiful. I am no longer sure of myself, and the paintings appear as in a dream. I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream. ~Vincent Van Gogh

Tuesday 05

Sunrise.

O holy virgin! clad in purest white,  Unlock heaven's golden gates, and issue forth;  Awake the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light  Rise from the chambers of the east, and bring  The honey'd dew that cometh on waking day.  O radiant morning, salute the sun  Roused like a huntsman to the chase, and with  Thy buskin'd feet appear upon our hills.  O radiant morning, appear on our hills. ~William Blake

Monday 04

Solzhenitsyn, Literary Giant Who Defied Soviets, Dies at 89. From today's obit in The New York Times:

Mr. Solzhenitsyn dared not travel to Stockholm to accept the prize for fear that the Soviet authorities would prevent him from returning. But his acceptance address was circulated widely. He recalled a time when “in the midst of exhausting prison camp relocations, marching in a column of prisoners in the gloom of bitterly cold evenings, with strings of camp lights glimmering through the darkness, we would often feel rising in our breast what we would have wanted to shout out to the whole world — if only the whole world could have heard us.” He wrote that while an ordinary man was obliged “not to participate in lies,” artists had greater responsibilities. “It is within the power of writers and artists to do much more: to defeat the lie!” By this time, Mr. Solzhenitsyn had completed his own massive attempt at truthfulness, “The Gulag Archipelago.” In more than 300,000 words, he told the history of the Gulag prison camps, whose operations and rationale and even existence were subjects long considered taboo. ...... He also tended toward outspokenness, and it soon undid him. After scorning the scientific work of the colonel who headed the institute, Mr. Solzhenitsyn was banished to a desolate penal camp in Kazakhstan called Ekibastuz. It would become the inspiration for “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.” At Ekibastuz, any writing would be seized as contraband. So he devised a method that enabled him to retain even long sections of prose. After seeing Lithuanian Catholic prisoners fashion rosaries out of beads made from chewed bread, he asked them to make a similar chain for him, but with more beads. In his hands, each bead came to represent a passage that he would repeat to himself until he could say it without hesitation. Only then would he move on to the next bead. He later wrote that by the end of his prison term, he had committed to memory 12,000 lines in this way.

We know from our lessons in Sunday School, Jesus said: ""By your words ye are justified and by your words ye are condemned."

Sunday 03

First Things First.

"The art of being wise, is the art of knowing what to overlook." ~William James

Saturday 02

I'll tell you how the Sun rose.

A news story about Alberto appeared in the paper last week

Friday 01

Sea of Corn.